


the sickness of memory

by Chokingonholywater



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 02:53:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20284195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chokingonholywater/pseuds/Chokingonholywater
Summary: After Jake’s disaster of a Halloween party, Jeremy somehow finds himself back home on the bathroom floor, sick and unable to stop replaying the events of the night. He isn’t sure which leaves a worse taste in his mouth: the alcohol that forces its way back up, or the thoughts he can’t force back down.





	the sickness of memory

**Author's Note:**

> this fic contains descriptions of vomiting so be aware!

Jeremy wasn’t entirely sure how he’d made it home after the party. He was still drunk, for sure, so he figured his Squip must’ve had something to do with it. 

Or maybe not, he mused, yanking off his boots. He hadn’t seen the Squip since it had told him to get out of Rich’s house, at which point Jeremy had been so wrecked by the night and all of the things that had happened (_chloebrookemichaelchristine_—) that he’d refused to leave before downing another red solo cup of punch that had definitely been spiked with some kind of strong smelling, bitter alcohol. 

After walking out of the house on unsteady legs, he found his way to the car he’d parked on the side of the street. It had taken him four tries to get the key into the ignition in his car (_dad’scarnotyours_—) and a part of him knew he definitely shouldn’t be driving, but his own desire to leave coupled with his Squip’s fervent insistence that he do so had overpowered that voice of protest, so he’d rolled down the windows to clear his head and pulled out onto the road.

It wasn’t like Rich lived all that far from Jeremy, and he hadn’t hit anything or been stopped. Maybe his Squip had been able to take over despite the alcohol, or maybe Jeremy had just been lucky, but he found he didn’t care.

Finally getting his second boot off, Jeremy stood up. The room was spinning a bit, and he blinked stupidly as it moved around him. He wasn’t sure why it surprised him that he was so drunk after what couldn't have been more than three drinks, considering he’d never really drank before. He and Michael (_ohgodthebathroom_) had snuck drinks a few times, usually from their parents cabinets, but they usually smoked if they did anything. It was a softer sort of out of it, one that was much less likely to make Jeremy feel shaky and sick, like he was now. Between Chloe’s bottle (_thebedandthewindowandmylegscouldntmoveohgod_) and his impulsive red solo punch on the way out, he was a complete mess.

Speaking of punch, he could suddenly taste the bitter remnants of it in the back of his throat. Jeremy swallowed thickly, putting one hand on the wall to steady himself. 

After a deep breath, he took a tentative step toward away from the wall, silently begging his legs to stay steady. They held, so he started making his slow way towards the stairs and his bedroom. 

It took what felt like an eternity for Jeremy to climb the stairs - about halfway up, he was suddenly hit with a wave of dizziness that almost had him toppling backwards. He’d gripped the handrail until his knuckles were white, eyes closed, breathing heavy and low.

The wave had eventually passed, and he’d struggled up the rest of the stairs as quickly as he could, not wanting to give himself another opportunity to fall down the stairs and break his legs.

Jeremy stopped at the top of the stairs, listening. His eyes were trained on his dad’s bedroom door, straining in the dark to listen for any movement from behind the door. It would be his luck, he thought bitterly, that his dad would come barging out yelling at him and interrogating him after everything that had already happened that night (_thebedroomthebathroomthecouch_).

Luckily, everything seemed quiet; no rustling, no footsteps, no angry voice calling out for him. Jeremy silently thanked whatever power was up there for that one small mercy tonight, turning towards his bedroom.

He pushed the door open and flicked on the light. He winced at the sudden brightness, shambling over to his desk with one eye closed and the other open only enough for him to see where he was going. He clicked on his lamp and, with his eyes still scrunched closed, turned around to flick off the ceiling light. 

Jeremy breathed a sigh of relief; his desk lamp was much more tolerable, a soft yellowish glow compared to the harsh light of the ceiling bulbs. 

Jeremy reached behind him and, after fumbling blindly, eventually grabbed the zipper of his costume. He pulled it down as far as he could, then gripped the collar and began to pull it off. The spandex was sticky with sweat and, probably, some of the drinks Jeremy had had. It took several minutes for him to successfully peel off the entire thing and all of the weird little accessories, but the feeling of the cool air on his bare skin made it worth it. He crumpled up the costume and threw it in the corner, not wanting to think about it. 

He stumbled towards his dresser for a clean pair of boxers. He shoved them on, scooping a T-shirt off of the floor to pull on over his head. He realized suddenly that he wasn’t wearing his glasses, and he couldn’t see clearly at all - a sign that the Squip was still disabled, as it could fix his vision by messing with the whatever-you-call-them nerves in his eyes or something. Jeremy didn’t know where his glasses were, so he resigned himself to temporarily seeing the world as a handful of blurry shapes and shadows - not that he intended to be awake to deal with it much longer. 

He shambled back towards his bed, falling into it with an unceremonious thump. Jeremy closed his eyes and let out a breath, relishing in the fact that the darkness on the back of his eyelids didn’t waiver and spin in clumsy, blurry circles like the rest of the world. 

His relief, however, was short lived. He hadn’t been laying down for more than a few minutes when his mind began to replay the night for him in blurry snatches of memory (_thebedroomandthebottleandthesoundofbrokenglassandloserloserloser_—). His eyes snapped open and he sat up, faster than he should have, but the memories didn’t disappear. 

The nausea was back, and Jeremy could feel the burning remnants of alcohol making their way back up his throat. Stumbling for the door, he shoved a hand over his mouth.

He barely made it to the bathroom in time to throw open the toilet seat before a torrent of bitter, burning liquid forced itself out of his stomach. 

Jeremy coughed, feeling spit and vomit drip down his chin. He only had time to take a breath before he pitched forward again, hands slapping down to grip the rim of the toilet as another wave of sickness overcame him. 

Everything burned as he threw up. The alcohol was bitter as it ripped up his throat, burning his nose; his lungs screamed out as he retched, unable to catch his breath. He had no idea how he had so much in his stomach - he didn’t remember drinking that much, or eating that much, but it just kept going. Every time he thought he was done and chanced an attempt at standing up, he was hit with another wave of nausea that forced him back into the porcelain embrace of the toilet for another round of bitter, disgusting sickness.

When it appeared he had emptied his stomach, he slumped down to his knees in front of the toilet. He gave up on trying to stop the spit from dripping out of his mouth, letting it roll down his chin and into the bowl as he tried to catch his breath. His mouth tasted rancid, and there was a steady throbbing in the back of his head from what felt like hours of retching. Jeremy’s hand grappled blindly for the toilet paper, which he eventually grabbed a wad of and swiped across his face. It didn’t help much, mostly just smearing vomit and spit and snot across his chin.

He sighed, dropping it in the toilet. He laid his head down on the arm that was resting across the toilet, breathing sporadically. He was afraid that if he tried to stand up just yet he would be sick again, so he squeezed his eyes closed and tried to breathe. 

Jeremy realized, belatedly, that there were tears seeping out of his eyes. A side effect, he assumed, of the violent sickness he’d just experienced. Or maybe it was because even throughout his stomach’s desperate attempt to rid itself of all contents, his brain had never once stopped its horrific refrain (_thebedroomandthebottleandthehallandthebathroomthedoorloser_).

He choked down a sudden sob, sitting back on his heels. He shoved the heels of his palms against his eyes, dragging his fingernails down his forehead as he curled his fingers into a fist. He suddenly couldn’t shake that last part (_loserloserloser_), couldn’t stop seeing Michael’s face against the back of his eyelids. The way he’d looked after Jeremy had told him to move (_getoutofthewayloser_) had been so haunting, more than hurt or angry or sad or any word Jeremy could conjure up. 

Suddenly Jeremy was choking, his breaths coming in violent gasps. The tears were flowing stronger now as he heard his own voice echo around his head, the tile of his own bathroom morphing like a funhouse mirror reflection of the bathroom at Jake’s house. He couldn’t breathe - couldn’t think, scrabbling aimlessly at his chest, his throat, as though he could tear a hole and suddenly alleviate the overwhelming weight of what he’d done that threatened to suffocate him. 

(_thebathroomandthetubandthemirrorandloserandthedoorandloserandloserandlos_—

Jeremy tipped forward again, bile tearing a horrible burning path up his throat. It singed his sinuses, his eyes dripping from the violent acidity as much as the thoughts that had brought it on. His body seized with spasms as he coughed up spurts of stomach acid, all other contents already floating in the ceramic bowl. 

After several minutes of painful retching and countless horrible, foamy mouthfuls of bile spilling out of his lips, Jeremy leaned back on his heels. His mouth tasted horrible, but he didn’t find that he had the energy to do much about it. He scraped his teeth over his tongue and spat into the toilet, trying what little he could to get rid of some of the awful aftertaste.

After one more weak attempt to spit out the acidic remnants, Jeremy rocked back to sit on the floor. He turned and slid himself backwards until his back thudded softly against the cool porcelain of the bathtub. As he did, he swiped the back of his hand over his mouth. It came away covered in spit and bile, and Jeremy shuddered, wiping it on his shirt. He could deal with that later. 

The memories of the night were still playing in Jeremy’s mind and he fought down another sudden bout of hyperventilating sobs, letting out a pained sort of choking sound. He desperately wanted to avoid any more throwing up, but he couldn’t seem to regain control of his body - or his mind. 

It was sort of blurry still, between the fact that he’d been a little drunk and the fact that a sort of numbness was settling in as he sat on the bathroom floor, but he could remember enough. Michael (_thebathtubandthemirrorandthedoorway_) had said something about Squips, something about hospitals and World of Warcraft and monologues. It was all sort of lost on Jeremy, who was struggling even to breathe evenly. 

It was all too much; the steady thrum of pain in the back of his skull, the taste of bile still left on his tongue, the tears and the snot that he couldn’t stop, the memory of Michael’s face in that bathroom and all the rest of what had happened at the party (_chloeandthebedandchristineandthebathroom_)—it was almost enough to make Jeremy grab for the rim of the toilet again. He couldn’t tell if the bile rising in his throat was real or all in his head, a symptom of the breakdown he felt like he was drowning in. Lately, though, it felt like the things in his head were more real than anything else. 

Even in the midst of the painful mental refrains and choking breaths and shoulder wracking sobs still occasionally shaking him, Jeremy realized how strange it truly was to be alone in his head, however briefly. He’d seen his Squip before he left the party, so he couldn’t imagine it would be too much longer before it came back, but his blurry vision and thoughts of Michael proved that it wasn’t operational again yet. 

Michael. 

Jeremy let out a small rasping cough, scraping a hand through his hair. It made him sick again just to think of it (_loserloserloser_), and he could feel the tears welling up again, the pressure in his sinuses building. He couldn’t stop hearing his own voice (_getoutofmywayloser_), couldn’t separate the bathroom he was in and the one he had been in, couldn’t justify what he’d done.

_Except you know that you can, came a whisper from somewhere in his psyche. _

_You made your choice that day when you chose the Squip over Michael, when you chose Christine and a shiny new wardrobe and a chance to go to parties and walk down the halls with the popular kids over him. You can pretend that you feel bad, it hissed, but you know, deep down—_

“No,” Jeremy choked out, breathing erratically, hands scraping down his face, pressing against his forehead, his eyes. 

_You’re selfish. You always have been, and you would do the same thing a million times over because that’s who you are. That’s what you are. _

A sob bubbled up painfully from Jeremy’s gut, ripping out of his throat with a force that shook his body. He didn’t want to think about Michael anymore, but he didn’t seem to have a choice. Weeks of his Squip artificially banishing Michael from his mind had compounded into an overwhelming flood of memories and feelings, and Jeremy was drowning in it. 

He knew he was selfish and he knew that, if he had to choose right now, he probably would choose the same things even if it meant hurting Michael. Michael would be better off anyways, Jeremy thought bitterly, falling back into his old thought patterns. The old Jeremy wasn’t someone he would wish on anyone, and hadn’t Michael put up long enough with his awkward sputtering, his sweaty palms, his ugly appearance, his lack of social skills? No, Jeremy had done him a favor; probably, Michael had been wanting to get rid of Jeremy but had been too nice to ever say it. 

It was a familiar thought, one that often resided in the back of his mind and the pit in his stomach and the tip of his tongue. After all, hadn’t Jeremy himself been willing to give up everything he had just to get away from himself? How could anyone possibly be anything other than relieved to have him out of their life? 

Jeremy realized abruptly that amidst his self deprecating tears, he had reverted back to his old anxious habit of scratching the inside of his wrist. There was a small patch of raw skin where his fingernails had removed the outer layers, and Jeremy flinched when he saw it. Without thinking, he violently shoved his hands apart and braced himself - shoulders hunched, eyes squeezed shut, breath held - for the shock he was used to. 

After a few moments of tense waiting, he realized it wasn’t coming. His Squip was still out of commission, it seemed, but he couldn’t imagine it would stay that way for much longer. 

The thought of going back to regular life, or the play acting version of it he’d been doing since he got his Squip weeks ago, was overwhelming. Jeremy took another shuddering breath, trying to keep himself from unraveling again right there on the bathroom floor. The idea of going back to the shocks and the constant internal commentary and the meticulous outfits and the carefully recited words was enough to make him gag again, tears welling up again at the prospect. It was all too much, and for what? For his Squip to be gone when he needed it, for Christine to say no, for Brooke to be hurt, for Chloe to nearly (_jesusfuckingchristhebedroomthebedmylegsdidntmove_)—no, Jeremy thought desperately, running his hand through his hair as though he could pull his mind away from what had happened with Chloe—for Michael to be gone and for Jeremy to have hurt him? 

It made Jeremy sick again to be back where he started, feeling alone and disgusting and scared and like he would never be anything. It was like nothing had changed, like he had been through all this hell for nothing.

But what was it he’d said to Michael? Something about not wanting the Squip out (_whywouldiwantthat_?). Was it true? Even here, sitting with snot and tears drying on his face, the taste of vomit still in his mouth, Jeremy found that it was. He knew that was probably depressing, on some level, but he coudn’t have kept on going for much longer without the Squip. It had all been too much, being himself, and this had finally given him the chance he’d always craved to be someone new, someone _better_.

He had no choice but to convince himself that all of this was worth it, that it was the struggle before the ultimate success. That the whole night had simply been a stepping stone on his way to being better, to being someone that was worth something. Hurting people, hurting himself, throwing up, crying on the floor - it would all be worth it. He would do everything right and _it would be worth it_; his Squip would fix everything. Even though things felt the same, his Squip had promised him things would be better, it had ensured him over and over again that if he just _listened_ it would make everything right and finally fix all of the things that were wrong with him. 

Maybe, Jeremy thought in a whisper, his Squip might even let him see Michael again, once Jeremy was fixed. Maybe they could help Michael too, if he wanted it, or at least Jeremy could protect him from the people he now called his friends. It would make the pain of tonight worth it, he decided, if he could eventually go back to his friend and remedy things, be less of a burden, be someone worthy of Michael’s friendship. He had halfway convinced himself that his Squip would let him fulfill this half baked fever dream when he heard it - a sort of whirring noise in the back of his head, then a short pop like something snapping into place.

And suddenly, he could see again.

“Get up off the floor, Jeremy, you look like an absolute mess.”

A familiar spark of pain ran down his spine and he jolted up, getting unsteadily to his feet. He pitched forward and caught himself on the wall, his vision going black for a terrifying moment before slowly clearing. 

“You send me away with the choice to drink, and I come back to find you sitting in your own sick. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected any better, but you still manage to surprise and disappoint.”

Jeremy flinched, his lingering headache suddenly flaring up. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it stupidly as he remembered he didn’t have to speak to communicate with his Squip. 

I was wondering, Jeremy thought tentatively, still bracing himself against the wall, if I could see M— if maybe I could— if maybe once we fix me—

He stopped, interrupted by the sound of his Squip’s cruel laughter. 

“Do you really think you’re in any position to make requests, Jeremy? Focus on the present - you look like a slob. Clean yourself up while I review the time I was so _conveniently_ out of service.” 

Jeremy held his tongue, vowing to come back to the idea later. He subtly rubbed away the tears that threatened to spill over his lashes and did his best to put on a good front so as to avoid any more berating. Back to routine, then.

He dutifully flushed the toilet as the Squip whirred quietly in his mind, replaying events and taking note of what he’d done. Jeremy flinched at his own reflection in the mirror as he approached the sink; it was like looking at a dead thing on the side of the road. He blinked, trying to dispel the sick feeling in his gut, and cupped some water from the faucet to rinse out his mouth with. He rubbed another handful on his face, cleaning off the salt tracks and everything else that had accumulated there. 

He briefly made eye contact with his reflection as he straightened back up. There was no light in his eyes; he looked away. 

The whirring in his head stopped, and Jeremy heard his Squip tsking at him. 

“Oh, Jeremy. Always one to make a mess of things. I hope you’ve learned from tonight that you need me.”

Jeremy felt a hot burst of anger, whipping around as though he could see his Squip. 

“Oh, I need you? Then where were you? You saw what happened tonight - the thing with Christine, and Brooke, and that - that shit with Chloe! I don’t even remember driving home,” Jeremy spat out. He felt like he was forgetting something else that had happened, but it eluded him.

Another spark of pain sent Jeremy grabbing for the edge of the sink, knuckles white as he gripped the cold ceramics. It lasted for a few moments longer than the previous one, clearly less of a motivator and more of a punishment. 

“All in due time, Jeremy, but only if you _obey_. Unless, perhaps, you think you don’t need me; did I miss the part about you enjoying sobbing like a useless child on the bathroom floor?”

Jeremy said nothing.

“Exactly. Now, if you’re done wallowing, it’s time to sleep. Change out of that filthy shirt; we can deal with a shower tomorrow.”

Jeremy felt himself moving without thinking, pulling open the bathroom door and quietly stepping out into the hallway. He padded towards his bedroom, realizing how much clearer he could see in the dark now that the Squip was once again manipulating his faulty ocular system.

He slipped into his room, grateful for the soft light provided by the lamp he’d turned on before. Jeremy tugged his shirt over his head carefully, doing his best to avoid touching the spots where he’d wiped his hands earlier. He threw the shirt on the floor, not wanting to think about the fact that he would have to clean it tomorrow.

After pulling on another clean shirt, Jeremy stood uncertainly in the center of his room. He waited for a moment, but his Squip seemed to be done with him; there were no more instructions or remarks from inside his mind.

Jeremy clicked off his lamp and walked over to his bed. After another momentary pause, he peeled back the covers and slipped in between the sheets. His entire body felt exhausted, though whether from the stress of the party or the drinking or the sickness he couldn’t say. No matter the cause, the soft weight of his blanket was a comfort, and he melted into his mattress. 

He could feel his eyelids growing heavy, but the thought of the party brought that feeling back - the one that insisted he’d forgotten something important. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, the nagging thought that there was something he was supposed to have done. Something to do with his Squip, he recalled, maybe asking it about something? Maybe _for_ something?

He couldn’t remember. His mind was foggy with fatigue, as though he simply couldn’t access all of his own thoughts through the exhaustion. Jeremy’s eyes were fluttering closed even as he strained to call to mind whatever he was forgetting. 

After another few minutes of thinking and nearly falling asleep, he decided to let it go. He reasoned that it couldn’t be anything serious if he couldn’t recall it; it was probably nothing, just a weird feeling. These things happen sometimes. 

Even as he shifted in his bed in preparation to sleep, his subconscious still sifted through his brain, trying desperately to find the source of what he was feeling. The resistance was too much, and he drifted off to sleep without any sort of closure.

That night, he dreamt of bathroom tiles and endless doorways and the odd and haunting feeling of losing something you forgot you ever had.

**Author's Note:**

> so that’s that! just wanted to write a little something, sometimes you just have to make your favs suffer. hope you enjoyed this little messy glimpse into my take on jeremy’s mind, please leave a comment if you liked it!! all support is appreciated :’)


End file.
